


um, i think you should probably hug me right now

by emrys (livingshitpost)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputation, Canon Disabled Character, Canonical Character Death, Disability, Established Relationship, Hospitals, Hurt Quentin Coldwater, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Protective Eliot Waugh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 15:08:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18527563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingshitpost/pseuds/emrys
Summary: i'm still getting caught up but. here's this i guess. it's like My Thing idk





	um, i think you should probably hug me right now

**Author's Note:**

> i'm still getting caught up but. here's this i guess. it's like My Thing idk

It's hard for him to open his eyes. Not only are they heavy, seemingly glued shut, but the fluorescent lights from above hit his dark brown eyes like daggers. He shuts them tighter with a slight whine.

Something — actually, it's probably some _one_  — shifts in a squeaky wood-and-fake-leather chair beside him. He turns his head, slowly, as he quickly realizes that it's fucking  _pounding_ like the worst hangover he's ever had. He opens one eye.

At first, it's just a blurry mess of colors. Maroon, beige, some browns, and a lot of clinical, all-too-familiar white and blue. But as he blinks a couple of times, he makes sense of it, and he can make out the chocolate curls just barely obscuring Eliot's gaze. He can't help but smile.

"Hey," he says. It's is soft and raspy and he coughs a few times, like he's kicked up the dust in an attic.

Eliot's eyes snap up from his phone. "Hey," he replies, his voice as smooth and sweet as ever. "You okay?"

He nods, and his eyes close again for a moment. He can feel his brain rattling around in his skull. "Been worse," he offers, because it's never too soon after almost dying to joke about attempted suicide.

Eliot laughs, but it's not at the joke. His eyes are glassy. "You sure took your fucking time, huh?"

"Mmm, yeah. Sorry. Depression nap."

Another laugh, but this time it's louder and realer and he leans over to kiss his boyfriend on the forehead. "I missed you, dumbass."

"I know." He lifts his arm to play with the close-cut curls at the nape of Eliot's neck, but can't seem to find it. He furrows his brows as he continues his search blindly.

The other man takes notice. (Of course he does; he's Eliot, and Eliot knows how to read Quentin like a goddamn novella.) "Something wrong?"

"No, it's just . . . " Quentin purses his lips. He adjusts himself as much as he can with Eliot looming over him, and then even more when he all but jumps out of the way, and he finds nothing. Just gauze and tape and bandages, bandages, bandages, and a drainage tube that makes his stomach start climbing into his throat when he looks at it for too long.

" . . . Oh."

Eliot bites the inside of his lip. "It's okay," he barely whispers, "you're gonna be okay."

"Yeah. I mean, I'm. I kinda figured. I knew I wasn't gonna just . . . " He sighs. Closes his eyes again. "Shit."

"Baby. Baby, hey. It's fine." He takes Quentin's hand in both of his own and rubs over the knuckles with the pads of his thumbs. "You'll get through this, okay? I'm right here."

"Fuck."

"I'm not going anywhere, okay Q? And, honestly, I think it's kinda sexy. Like Sergeant Barnes-"

"El?"

"Yeah?"

Quentin licks his lips. "Is Alice okay?"

Eliot sighs through his nose. "Promise you're not gonna freak out so they don't have to sedate you."

"Just tell me."

" . . . No. She was dead when they got there."

It takes a moment to swallow the lump in his throat.

"Goddammit."

"I know, Q."

He wipes his eyes on his forearm, trying to resist the shuddering sobs already coursing through him.

"Hey, c'mere." Eliot puts one arm under Quentin's and pulls him up, holding him tightly to his chest. "I know, baby." He wraps both arms around the smaller man's chest, careful not to apply any pressure to the scar running down where his left arm once was, and lets him cry into his intricately-patterned vest. His fingers rub small circles into his back through the shitty hospital gown and the cotton wound around him.

"I don't . . . "

"Hey. We're gonna get through this." He kisses Quentin's temple. "I promise."


End file.
